


Crossroads

by Vagrant_Blvrd



Series: Crinkle Dot [2]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe- GTA V, Fake AH Crew, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 01:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13730007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vagrant_Blvrd/pseuds/Vagrant_Blvrd
Summary: Los Santos is a weird, fucked up place.





	Crossroads

**Author's Note:**

> [You know what you did](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/150351585), miss-ingno. >:((((((

Los Santos is a weird, fucked up place.

Michael learns that one early on, but it doesn't really stick until he's been living there for a while. Ends up with a frequent visitor in the figure of the Vagabond and the idiot ducklings that have taken to lurking around Michael's neighborhood.

“Ah, yeah,” the Vagabond says, something fond in his voice as Michael rants about the morons in the car at the end of the street. “Those are mine.”

Michael stops mid-rant, and looks at the Vagabond.

Big scary guy with clown face paint and supposedly meant to be the terrible bogeyman of Los Santos with this dopey little smile on his face.

Could be due to the painkillers he's on at the moment. Could be due to the fact a couple of his crewmates have been spying on him for who knows how long before Michael caught on, hard to say.

Because, again, Los Santos.

“Care to explain?”Michael asks, oh so polite. “I mean, I know it's probably normal for you to have people stalking you and such, but I'm new to this.”

The Vagabond grins, this slow little thing that lights up face and Michael is not going to be swayed by it because he happens to like that face far too much, _no_.

“Well,” the Vagabond says, and starts spouting some kind of bullshit about the way he ended up as member of the Fake AH Crew like it's an old, fond favorite he likes to tell people full of car chases and explosions and being paid to kill certain people who will remain nameless.

“...And that's why we don't talk about coins anymore,” the Vagabond finishes with, a dark look on his face like that goddamned coin murdered his family and one day - one bright beautiful day - he's going to get his revenge.

“Uh,” Michael says, because somewhere along the way of explaining things, the Vagabond veered off onto a tangent about fucking coins and probability. “Okay?”

Still doesn't explain why members of his crew have been parked down the road from Michael's apartment building for the better part of a week now. Why he gets this hinky feeling out running errands, stopping at the grocery store or dealing with other everyday things that someone's watching him. Why that new guy at the gym keeps eyeing him up and not in a way that means he's trying to come up with a good pickup line.

“They worry,” the Vagabond says, the way Michael's mom talks about his siblings. All soft and fond and this undertone of _those fucking morons_ to it all. “If it makes you feel any better, they probably won't shoot you.”

That's. Wow.

“Okay, then,” Michael says, because it's clear he means it to be reassuring. “Load off my mind right there. Thanks.”

He gets another stupid, idiotic grin for that. Soft and sweet and Michael absolutely does not get the urge to duck down and press a kiss to the fucking Vagabond's forehead at that, _no_.

That would be an even worse idea than Michael letting this idiot into his place like this when he's gotten himself hurt time and again. Letting him stick around for a bit until he's back on his feet, or someone from his crew comes along to take him back their super secret criminal clubhouse.

The worst idea ever, really.

========

Another thing about Los Santos Michael's learned is that, typically speaking, empty parking garages are not where you want to be, ever.

Especially this late at night, though that might have more to do with the gun in his back than anything else.

“Hello there,” someone says, familiar enough voice, but the accent is more of a dead giveaway.

Michael's tired, sore, and more than a little annoyed. Just wants to go home after a long day, but no. He has this to deal with this, and goddamn his life anyway.

He's almost certainly putting far more trust into what the the Vagabond told him before than is wise. Trusting that the Vagabond meant when he said his crewmates probably wouldn't shoot him as he turns around to see the guy holding a gun on him.

That same skinny fuck who carjacked Michael and his partner a few months back, all stupid smiles and cheerful tones.

“The hell do you want now?” he asks, demands, really, because he's honestly not in the mood for this bullshit.

“Ah,” the British fuck says, taken aback for a moment. Cocks his head and just stares at Michael for a moment before he smiles, utterly delighted at whatever he sees. 

Michael shifts, bag heavy on his shoulder. Uneasy at the way the guy's _beaming_ at him.

_”What?”_

“Oh,” the guy says, tucking his gun away somewhere and claps his hands together. “Oh, you're interesting, aren't you?”

Michael rolls his eyes and shoves past the idiot and gets into his car. Shuts the door in his face and starts the engine, rolls down the window to look the fucker in the eye before he drives off.

“No.”

Just.

Whatever games he's playing? 

No.

Only thing is, the idiot laughs, and Michael manfully resists the sudden urge to run his stupid ass over as he leaves. (The paperwork involved alone would be a nightmare.)

Checks his rearview before he turns the corner and sees the guy on the phone, gesturing with a hand and _laughing_.

 _Christ_.

========

The guy at the gym offers to spot Michael when he's lifting weights not too long after.

Gets past the creepy as hell staring he's been doing and wanders over. Tries to make it look all casual, just taking in the sights. Checking out the available equipment, and oh, hello! Didn't see you there, pal, sorry about that.

Big, sunny smile and shiny, bald head.

“Sure,” Michael says, like the guy isn't the one with the terrible fashion sense he's seen on the news. Sitting in that stupid car always at the corner of his eye these days with the British fuck right next to him. “Why the hell not.”

Michael waits until the guys standing behind him in position because Michael's an idiot with no self-preservation instinct and asks, “Are you sure you can reach it, though? It's kind of high up.”

He smiles at the double-take the guy gives him, like he can't believe Michael's that kind of stupid. 

(He is though, so fucking much.)

========

Michael keeps running into the two of them all the damn time, which is just fucking annoying.

Sometimes they go all out. Put on costumes and try out different accents with varying success, and for the life of him Michael cannot figure out what the hell they're playing at. If they're trying to find the perfect time and place to off him or are just fucking around or _what_.

As time goes on, he learns their names and that they're just as stupid at the Vagabond is, if not worse.

Ends up taking care of them from time to time when they slink in, gunshot grazes and knife wounds and lesser things they're tight-lipped about. Threaten (ask) him not to tell the Vagabond about. Has him wondering why they feel it's important the Vagabond not know about all these injuries they come to Michael with, but there's always something about the looks on their faces when they do that has him agreeing to it in spite of himself.

Makes him realize that as often as the Vagabond gets torn up looking after them, the reverse is also true. It's a weirdly reassuring thought, that these assholes aren't just in it for themselves, are looking after each other the best way they know how.

Still, the stalker behavior is getting a little old.

“Trust me,” the Vagabond says, poking at the line of a new scar forming where Michael's just removed the stitches. “If they wanted to kill you, you'd be dead by now.”

That's.

“Yeah?” Michael asks, wonders if it would have bothered this asshole if they had. Voice going a little sharp on him there at the end because he honestly doesn't know the answer to that one. “Nice to know.”

The Vagabond looks up at that, head tipped to the side. 

He stopped bothering with the stupid skull mask a while back, so it's just the face paint now. Easier to read when he lets Michael do that, but apparently now isn't one of those times as he regards Michael.

Michael feels his lip curl, and starts to push past the asshole to clean up when the asshole laughs.

That strange little surprised puff of sound as he reaches out to catch Michael's wrist, carefully, gently.

“They worry,” he says again, but there's something different to it this time, and Michael - 

“Wait,” Michael says, watching the Vagabond's smile. Slow and sweet and a little teasing as realization hits Michael. “Are you saying they're worried about _me_?”

As in, they've moved on from worrying about Michael being some kind of threat to the Vagabond or their crew, and on to being worried about _him_. Michael Jones, EMT who patches up the Vagabond and various criminal types every so often because he's an idiot?

“Well,” the Vagabond says, eyes skipping away from Michael's as he lets his hand drop. “I may have told them you're not a fan of the knives - “

“I almost cut off my finger, you asshole!”

“Or the gun,” the Vagabond continues, going on to list all the different sorts of weapons and the like he's stashed around Michael's apartment in the past. 

Things Michael hadn't been a fan of because hey, no thanks, the knives were bad enough? No need to throw in a gun he doesn't know how to use, or _grenades_ , what the actual fuck?

Michael stares at him, taking in the the downturn to the Vagabond's mouth, hunched shoulders like he's waiting for Michael to yell at him, and it suddenly occurs to him just why the idiot's been so insistent about all of that. Trying so damn hard to find something Michael will agree to keeping around.

“Christ,” Michael says, laughing helplessly into his hands because this goddamned _moron_.

He hears the idiot get up, planning to sneak out the way he does when he thinks he's overstayed his welcome, and blindly throws a hand out. Manages to brush the sleeve of his jacket and grabs on when the Vagabond goes to pull away.

So, so fucking stupid.

“You idiot,” Michael says, turning his head to see the Vagabond staring at him, eyes wide. Like he doesn't _know_.

Yes, Michael's the kind of idiot who does stupid shit like patch him and his buddies up. Yes, that's probably going to get him into trouble one day, because that's just how things work here in Los Santos. No good deed going unpunished or however that saying goes.

“I can take care of myself,” Michael says, and tugs the Vagabond closer. “Stop being so damn stupid, all right?”

The Vagabond looks like he's trying to believe Michael. That whatever shit from his past, from his current life, he has nipping at his heels won't bleed over into this thing between them, and very clearly unable to put faith behind it.

“Stop it you fuck,” Michael says, and drags him down for a kiss he's been thinking about for a while. 

“Uh,” the Vagabond says, stupidly, adorably confused as he blinks at Michael when he breaks away for air. “Not that I'm complaining, but - “

“Oh my fucking _God_ ,” Michael mutters, grabbing for one of the shitty throw pillows to smack the Vagabond in the face with. “Get with the fucking program already you asshole.”

The Vagabond sputters, batting the throw pillow aside and _looks_ at Michael. This slow, disbelieving smile tugging at his mouth.

Says, because he's an asshole, “It's the face paint, isn't it? You wouldn't believe how many people - “

Michael doesn't let him finish his sentence, just tackles the fucker and shuts him up with another kiss before he can ruin everything by talking.

========

A few weeks later and Michael's dealing with paperwork when he realizes he forgot something in the ambulance earlier, and runs down to get it.

It's the end of the day and he's exhausted. Doesn't notice anyone else down there until he hears the sound of a gun being cocked. (Forgot one of the primary rules of life in Los Santos because he's a goddamned idiot.)

Slowly turns around to see the British fuck standing a few feet away, completely expressionless.

“Can I help you?” Michael asks, at a loss for anything else to say in this kind of situation when the silence stretches between them.

Remembers Ryan's words, that if his crewmates really wanted him dead he would be. Wonders if maybe Gavin changed his mind. Saw the way Michael marks Ryan up sometimes, decided it wasn't headed anywhere good and intended to deal with it, who the hell knows.

Gavin moves closer, eyes narrowing as he gets a good look at Michael's neck. Sees the way _Ryan_ likes to mark him up sometimes, fucking possessive bastard –

“Bloody Christ, the two of you,” Gavin says, shaking his head as he tucks that gun of his away. Looking exasperated, as though Ryan and Michael are nothing but endless trouble for him.

Which, you know. Fucking priceless, really.

“I came to give you this,” Gavin says, and holds out a phone.

“Uh,” Michael says, not wanting to offend the hardened criminal and all by refusing his gift, “I have a phone?”

Gavin looks heavenward and sighs.

“It's a burner phone,” he says, voice taking on a particular tone Michael doesn't appreciate but feels is warranted under the circumstances. “If something happens, call any of the numbers programmed into it, no matter what time it is.”

Michael takes the phone when Gavin pushes it at him again, not sure what to say because this? Kind of a big thing. Not just Michael patching up the Vagabond and a pair of idiots every so often. Not something that just "sort of happens", you know?

No.

This is - 

“Be careful,” Gavin says, all the seriousness in the world to it, and then someone honks their horn a few cars down.

Gavin turns to glare at a car in this hideous combination of purple and orange that Michael somehow missed seeing before. Jeremy grins and waves at them before he starts honking the car's horn to a vaguely familiar rhythm. And Gavin, okay. Gavin throws his hands up and stalks toward that abomination of a car, yelling something incomprehensibly British at Jeremy.

Michael stares after him, and wonders how the hell anyone in this damn city is in awe of these idiots.

========

Michael's phone rings on a Sunday morning.

The first day off he's had off in almost two weeks, and he's fully intent on catching up on the sleep he's missed. 

Shitty mattress, shitty blankets, draft coming from somewhere he just can't pin down no matter what he tries, but hey. He's off the clock, free to do whatever he wants for the entire day, which at this point in time involves sleep. There's a possibility Netflix figures into things later. Dinner with a certain asshole if he's not committing felonies or whatever the hell he does for fun when he isn't. 

So of course someone calls him at five in the morning to fuck those grand plans of his up.

“Motherfucker,” he mutters, scrabbling at his nightstand for his phone as it skitters away from him. After a moment he manages to pin it down, muffled buzzing irritating him into full wakefulness as he picks it up and turns it so he can see the screen.

And, you know. If he wasn't blind without his glasses or contacts that would have been fine, but as it happens he _is_ blind without them. The world is just one big blur for him. Dark and washed out save for the bright screen and vibrant colors of the Vagabond's contact picture Michael spent a lot of time picking out.

The Vagabond keeps stealing his phone, trying to change the contact picture from the cartoonish clown Michael selected for him to something – anything - else, but Michael's won the last round of that dumb little game.

“The hell do you want, asshole?” Michael asks, rubbing a hand over his face and grimacing at the stubble he can feel, waiting for the one of the Vagabond's stupid quips or shitty dad-jokes, but - 

Nothing.

Or, okay.

Not _nothing_ , because he can hear the rain, sounds of faint traffic and...breathing.

Heavy, labored breathing with something wet to it that has Michael sitting up. Little spike of fear in his chest as his brain kicks into gear, training running through all the things that could make someone sound like that and not kill them - _yet_.

“Where are you?”

“Hey,” the Vagabond says, and he sounds awful, every word a struggle to get out. “I'm...gonna have to cancel tonight.”

Michael closes his eyes and snarls, “ _Where the fuck are you?”_

The Vagabond laughs, chokes on something that may or may not be blood (goddamn better not be) and tries to do what Michael asked him.

Falls a little short as he describes a billboard he's staring at. The color of the sky above him, and how hard and cold the ground is under him. Little bits of rock poking him in the back, broken glass cutting up his hand, and Michael hates him so goddamn much as he listens to the halting, broken way he's talking.

Really, truly hates this asshole for being so goddamned stupid.

“R – Vagabond?” he correct himself because he's not supposed to know the asshole's name, no one outside his crew is supposed to know.

And Michael, okay. 

He knows what a terrible idea this has been from the beginning, this little thing between them. Letting himself get involved with this asshole and his idiot crewmates. Letting himself forget sometimes – not very often because they won't let him with the shit they get up to – that this is fine, they're all fine. Nothing to worry about, but then shit like this happens.

Michael's moving on automatic while the Vagabond's still talking, rambling disjointedly. Rolling out of bed and getting dressed in the dark and going for the burner phone Gavin gave him _“for emergencies, only, Michael, it's not a toy”_ because like hell is he going to hang up on the V – on _Ryan_.

Gavin picks upon the third ring, Michael already down the stairs and to his car. He sounds suspiciously awake even at this hour, which means he probably hasn't gone to bed yet, but that's a problem for another day.

And Michael knows, knows, the little shit is constantly planting trackers on everyone in his crew. Little things he dreams up to keep tabs on them in case this kind of thin happens, slipping them in here and there and everyfuckingwhere and Michael used to think it was weird, kind of creepy, but now he fucking loves Gavin for it.

“I need you to tell me where Ryan is,” Michael says, turning the key in the ignition and backing out of his parking spot the moment he can.

He stops at the entrance to the street, waiting, waiting, _waiting_ for Gavin to give him a direction to go in, clock ticking away in the back of his head. 

_”Michael?”_

“He's hurt and I don't know where he is,” Michael says, burner phone on speaker and his own phone pressed against his ear and hating how helpless he feels.

He can hear Ryan breathing. Hear the way it's a goddamned fight for him that has Michael's heart hammering in his chest as he keeps trying to get Ryan to respond, say something, but all he gets is the goddamned _breathing_.

 _”Right, give me a moment,”_ Gavin says, picking up on the fear in Michael's voice and so fucking smart it kills Michael a little.

Michael waits, Ryan's breathing growing weaker in his ear - 

_”Got it,”_ Gavin says, all business now as he reels off an address, tells Michael help is on its way even as Michael presses his foot down on the accelerator and races to the address Gavin gave him. 

He blows through every fucking intersection on the way and never once hits a red because Gavin is a fucking miracle.

========

Ryan's a fucking mess. This horrible crumpled figure outside a warehouse in the rain, and Michael's hands are shaking.

“You fucker,” he hisses over and over and over as he works to stem the bleeding, small and helpless and so fucking angry. “Goddamn you.”

Ryan's watching him. Crescent slivers of pale, pale blue and this stupid fucking smile on his lips. Blood mixing with the face paint in the rain and it's a sight that's going to haunt Michael's dreams for the rest of his life, he knows it already. 

There are bodies scattered around them, dropped weapons and blood being washed down the gutter. Somewhere behind him he hears sirens, cars approaching and yelling, but all he has eyes for is Ryan, stupid bastard that he is smiling at him like everything's going to be okay, that it's all goddamn _fine_ , don't worry so much Michael.

“Ryan,” Michael says, voice breaking on him because he can't stop the bleeding, “don't you do this to me you asshole, don't you fucking dare!”

======== 

There's not a lot in life Michael regrets, not the kind of things that burrow deep and threaten to pull him down day after day, at any rate.

Things he should have done but didn't, or did and shouldn't have. Take this path, instead of that one, man the fuck up or keep his mouth shut and live with whatever happens afterward best he can.

For the most part it's the small shit. Everyday regrets that fade from memory as time goes by he tends to have. 

Problem is, Michael's a goddamn champ at lying to himself sometimes, and lately his life has just been this long string of regrets all tied together to the point he doesn't know where one ends and the next begins.

It's Michael being too stupid to turn the Vagabond away when the idiot broke into his place looking for someone to patch him up all those months ago. It's Ryan invading his space time and time again, stupid smile on his face and dumb jokes and awkward everything. It's Ryan trying to keep Michael safe by hiding weapons all over his apartment without telling him until Michael stumbles over them. It's Ryan bleeding out in the rain and calling Michael to let him know he wouldn't be making to Michael's later, wouldn't be there to watch shitty movies and eat take-out. 

It's fucking _Ryan_ and his idiot crewmates.

Gavin who's so stupid sometimes it hurts, and Jeremy who goes along with whatever dumb plan Gavin comes up with as easily as Ryan does. Geoff and Jack and all the others he's met for the first time today, telling Michael it was supposed to be a simple job. Nice and easy and something Ryan's done a hundred times before, but all it takes is that one time when shit goes wrong and everything falls apart. Doing their best to reassure him that Ryan's a stubborn bastard, if anyone could survive this it's him.

It's knowing he's in things so deep now there's no way out, if he even wants there to be one, and that - 

Christ, Michael doesn't fucking know anymore.

All he knows is that it all starts with goddamn _Ryan_.

“The fuck is your problem, asshole?” Michael mutters, hand aching where he's holding Ryan's phone tight like a lifeline, has been for the past however long he's been here at Ryan's bedside. 

Ryan's alive, barely. Connected to a mess of machines and looking startlingly small in the hospital bed. 

Some John Doe Michael chanced upon and no one looking too deeply into the how or why when this is Los Santos and things like this happen all the fucking time.

Gavin and Jeremy left a little while ago to grab come coffee and food in the cafeteria leaving Michael and Ryan alone for the time being.

“Hey,” Michael hears, this small, croaky voice, and when he looks over he sees Ryan watching him. 

Tired and pale and more than half-dead, but looking a damn sight better than he did when Michael found him what feels like forever ago.

Ryan's been drifting in and out of sleep for a couple of hours now. Awake and semi-lucid for a handful of minutes at a stretch, but it looks like he's making an effort to stay awake this time around. Fighting painkillers and cocktail of drugs they're pumping into him to keep him alive, because of course he is.

Michael looks at him, this stupid bastard who's watching Michael with a small smile, everything there in his eyes with his defenses down, and Michael's heart can take so much.

So.

“Why the hell do you have my number saved as 'Crinkle Dot', you fuck?”

Ryan blinks, mind still hazy as he thinks. Digs into the vast and echoing cavern his head must be and tries to find the answer Michael's looking for.

“Oh,” he says, voice rusty and croaky and has Michael reaching for the cup of ice chips on the rolling table pushed off to the side. “That. Yeah.”

Michael holds the cup up where Ryan can see, holding it hostage until the idiot gives a sign he's actually going to explain instead of just looking insufferably amused about something.

“Fine, fine,” Ryan says, looking a little put out at how unbelievable cruel and heartless Michael is. “So - “

Michael feeds Ryan ice chips and listens as the idiot insists it's a funny story, really. That it was a combination of bloodloss, clumsy fingers and - possibly - a concussion and Ryan almost fucking dying again that led to Ryan entering "crinkle dot" into his phone instead of "criminal doctor". That when he was back in his right mind thought it was goddamned hilarious and left it like that for shits and giggles and Michael, Michael, don't dump the ice chips on me, that would be _mean._

========

Michael has a temper problem.

That's what his teachers used to tell his parents, anyway. That Michael got angry, got loud. Yelled a lot, scared the other kids, but the thing is?

He can control it when he wants.

Hold on to it for a later time and not have it fester, turn dark and ugly and fucked up the way he's seen other people get in his line of work. He's got a handle on his temper, knows how it can get out of control if he's not careful.

And Ryan, okay. 

For a long, long time he's just not in the right shape to fully experience Michael's anger over that whole “last phone call” bullshit he tried to pull on him. That fucking malarkey about wanting to get his goodbye in while he still could instead of calling someone in his crew or the fucking emergency number for help. 

“Well, I mean,” Ryan tries, charming smile and sly voice and no idea how fucking much he's pushing Michael's limits. “You're an EMT, so - “

“I'm going to punch you in your stupid fucking face if you finish that sentence."

Better yet, Michael still has Ryan's phone with him, useless hunk of plastic and glass and fried insides thanks to the rain, but it'll make for a solid projectile nonetheless. Would hurt plenty if Michael threw it at Ryan's stupid, smug little face.

Ryan bites his lip, tries to wipe the smile off his face with minimal success. Idiot doesn't think Michael would do it if he keeps pushing, which is just so amazingly wrong of him Michael doesn't have the words to express how wrong Ryan is.

But hey, if he's feeling well enough to be this kind of asshole, he's well enough for Michael to let him know in no uncertain terms what a goddamned idiot he is.

“You scared the shit out of me, you fuck!” Michael yells, and there, okay. There goes his voice breaking on him again because Michael's seen death, seen what it looks like coming over someone more times then he cares to think about, and Ryan had been so fucking close. “You fucking scared me and you're just. Goddamn, I fucking hate you.”

He does, he really fucking does because Los Santos isn't the kind of city you go giving your heart to someone like Ryan and expect it to stay in one piece, for it to keep beating strong and steady and untouchable.

No. 

A place like this? You get it back broken into a million little pieces and no way to fix it, just shove it all back into your chest broken and jagged and _wrong_.

And Michael knows Ryan well enough to know that this, knowing how close he came to dying this time won't stop him from going right back out there and pulling the same shit again in the future to keep his crew, his fucking family safe. 

The worst part is that Michael could never - would never -ask him to stop because he understands. 

Knows how much Ryan cares about them, how hard he works to keep them safe at his own cost and he gets it. Understands it as much as he hates it, and they're so fucked up, the two of them, they really are.

“Michael - “

“Fuck off,” Michael says, feeling raw and exposed and hating it because _this asshole_.

Ryan's looking at him like he has no idea how to make things better here, floundering, and Michael snorts because that makes two of them.

Still, he tangles his fingers with Ryan's when the asshole reaches for him. This look on his face like he's expecting Michael to reject that gesture, small and hesitant and as though he doesn't think he has to right to ask for that small bit of comfort, reassurance, which. 

_No_.

Michael's an idiot, through and through. Running headlong into heartbreak and ruin and doing it gladly because doing anything else is a regret he doesn't want to live with. 

========

The Fake AH Crew are nothing but meddlers. 

A bunch of nosy old biddies who poke and prod, and suddenly Michael's on the shooting range in the building they own (super secret criminal clubhouse) with Gavin and Jeremy.

Gun heavy and unfamiliar in his hands as they coach him, offer tips and pointers and cheering him on when he manages to hit the target. He misses more than he hits anything of note, but it's helping.

Gives him something to do while the others move Ryan into the surprisingly well-appointed infirmary a few floors up. Not quite up to hospital standards, but a damn sight better than he was expecting. Better than some dirty back-alley places Michael's seen, and safer than hoping the cops wouldn't hear about the John Doe with multiple gunshot wounds and no police report to show for any of it.

And this, Gavin and Jeremy spiriting Michael down here? 

He's no idiot. Knows exactly what these two are doing, but it's nice, in a way. Keeps his mind off worrying about Ryan for the moment and he appreciates the gesture.

“Oh, nice,” Jeremy says, when he examines the paper target. "You did better than Gavin.”

There's an indignant squawk from Gavin as he snatches the damn thing out of Jeremy's hand, loudly insisting he's a better shot than some tosser who's never touched a gun before today, Jeremy shaking with laughter.

“The fuck is a 'tosser'?”

Gavin looks over at Michael like he'd forgotten he was there. 

“What are you on about Michael?”

“Don't 'what are you on about, Michael?' me, you fuck!” Michael yells, that jagged feeling in his chest easing at the genuinely baffled look on Gavin's face, Jeremy's helpless laughter. “You heard me!”

========

Apparently there's a room set up for Michael here.

Damn sight nicer than his apartment and stocked with a some clothes in his size and the necessary toiletries. (Little bit on the creepy side, to be honest.) 

There's also a king-sized bed with the most comfortable mattress Michael's ever had the privilege of touching. Blankets that look nice and warm and cozy and it's all so fucking tempting, like something out of a fairytale or ancient myth laid out as some sort of test.

Easy enough in this case as Michael passes on all of it f it without a second thought. Thanks Lindsay for the tour and takes the elevator down to the infirmary. Ignores Jack's knowing smile, the thoughtful look he gets from Geoff as he crosses to the bed Ryan's in. Sits down in the chair next to it and stares at the asshole who wormed his way into Michael's life so completely.

Fucking menace, really. Turning Michael's life upside down like this without Michael realizing how bad it had gotten.

“Hey, fuckface.”

Ryan smiles at him. He looks like shit and somehow manages to make it work for him anyway.

“Gavin and Jeremy are making me learn how to use a gun.”

Jeremy wants to get him in their little gym tomorrow too, teach him a few things like Michael didn't get into his share of trouble growing up. There are others popping up all over the damn place, like curious little puppies wanting to know what's up with the grumpy asshole suddenly invading their super secret criminal clubhouse.

“Oh?”

“I'm pretty shit at it, but hey. Maybe some private lessons with the right teacher would help, you know?” Michael says, eyebrows raised as he waits to see if Ryan's going to take the bait, pick up on what Michael's offering.

Thankfully, it seems somewhere along the way someone's made Ryan watch the same shitty romance movies Michael has because he gets this _look_ to him. All plotting and scheming and all of it so stupidly endearing it actually hurts. All those jagged little bits in Michael's chest trying to fit together in a way that makes sense again.

“Is that a promise?” Ryan asks, trying for something in the area of roguish and charming and only making as far as it to hopeless and dorky, which to be fair is his usual default.

“More like an incentive for you to get better, dumbass, but whatever you want to call it, sure. Why the hell not?”

There's a long road to recovery in Ryan's future, and if something stupid like that will keep him going, Michael's all for it. One step at a time and all that bullshit, one step at a time.


End file.
